


Think of me.

by JadeRachelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Breaking and Entering, M/M, The Coat - Freeform, one sided?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 08:28:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/963796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JadeRachelle/pseuds/JadeRachelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from Tumblr.<br/>Jim gets cosy with Sherlock's coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think of me.

The flat was quiet, so very quiet. The entire building was silent. It was early evening, the time when most ordinary people would be settling in for the night, perhaps making their tea and switching on their televisions, relaxing into worn sofa cushions and turning off their brains for the day. A few stragglers could be heard outside, dragging themselves down the footpath with their briefcases and mobile phones, defeated and exhausted after a day of work and thinking only of the moment they would step through their front door and switch off. Jim did not fall into this category. He was standing in the door of a flat, yes. He had indeed been working all day, yes. But this was not his flat, this was not time to switch off and settle into complacency. 

The occupants of this particular flat were similar to him. They weren't settling in, coming home, relaxing. Jim was here only because they weren't. He knew the tenants, one ex army doctor, one consulting detective. The doctor, he knew, was still at work at the clinic. Jim had made sure to cripple one of his men and send him there to keep the good doctor occupied past his usual hours. A small sacrifice of his own worker in order to make sure the flat was empty. The detective needed no pushing to leave his home. He was currently at St. Barts, last Jim heard, belting corpses and taking notes. And so the home they shared was empty, still and silent and just begging for Jim to ransack.

With a grin like a cat that got the cream Jim stared around at the flat. There were glass slides on the kitchen table, tea mugs and papers strewn on every surface, nothing seemed to have a place and instead lay in disarray. He picked his way through the sitting room, eyes taking in everything from the cushions on the couch to the folders of case files beside the laptop. He let his fingers trail over the mantle, lingering on the pocket knife that held the paper of long due bills in place. He raised his eyes and caught his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He narrowed his eyes and smirked as he glanced at the reflection, eyes darting to observe everything in the flat. After a long moment he turned away and followed the wall around to the door of the kitchen. He shook his head with a pained frown at the mottled green paint, sauntering past the table full of slides and experiments and out into the small adjoining room. He looked ahead of him, ignoring the door to his left that led to the bathroom and instead focusing on the shut off room before him. He licked his lips and reached for the door handle, a sense of excitement and satisfaction rearing up in his chest as he pushed the door open.

Jim resisted the urge to make an excited sound as the door closed behind him. Here it was, in all of it's unlit glory; Sherlock Holmes bedroom. Where would he start? What could he look at? What could he touch? He stood for a moment, eyes darting around unable to rest on anything as he all but danced with glee at the thought of being alone in here, able to study where Sherlock slept. He calmed himself and wandered towards the unmade bed, fingers dancing over the fabric of the duvet as he sighed. He could imagine perfectly just how this bed looked with the detective's body between the covers, limbs tangled beneath the blankets, curls against the pillow. He tore his eyes from the bedspread and opened the drawer in the bedside table. Empty besides a watch and a few sheathes of paper. Disappointing.

He moved around the bed and stood before the chest of drawers, fingers reaching out to feel the chestnut wood of the furniture. He grinned as he slid the top drawer open and found a mess of clothing. Jim immediately pushed both hands into the fabric and promptly messed it all up, socks and pants moving from their indexed places to a scattered state of disorder. He slammed the drawer shut and proceeded onto the next one, doing the same to each drawer until he stepped back with a proud smile, knowing that the detective would be incredibly agitated when he discovered the mess. 

Jim stretched his arms above his head and eyed the wardrobe to his right for a second before stepping closer and throwing the door open. He sighed in delight at the sight before him. All button down shirts in a variety of fabrics and colours, sorted perfectly next to dark blazers and the one thing that Jim had never thought would be left alone while the detective was out. The coat. There it hung in all it's glory, the coveted Belstaff. Jim ran his fingers over the fabric, the tweed softer than he had expected and clearly a well treated wool. If he had to guess using his sometimes embarrassing knowledge of fabrics and process of bonding, he'd say it was Irish wool, top quality, perfect really. He smirked to himself and pulled the coat from the hanger, holding it in front of him to study it up close. With a wicked grin he pulled the coat over himself, slipping his arms into the sleeves and tugging the lapels straight. He spun in a circle, watching the coat tail flare out about him. It was big, too big for him but it was warm and soft and god, that smell.

He paused, pulling the collar up to his cheeks and inhaled deeply. That scent, apple and mint and something purely Sherlock. He wrapped his arms around himself for a moment, relishing the weight of the coat that swam on him, warm and personal and violated by his presence. He moved through the room, poking and prodding and messing up every drawer, every box, everything he could get his hands on, all the while Sherlock's Belstaff wrapped around him and adding a skewed sense of intimacy to the entire ransacking. Once fully convinced that nothing in the room had been left untouched, Jim flopped down onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, the same scent that lingered on the coat surrounded him, left on the pillows and mixed with what could only be the man's shampoo. With a devious smile Jim sat up, pulling his legs under him as he shrugged off the coat, his own blazer and his tie. What was the point of messing with everything if he had to evidence to prove he had indeed been here and done this? He deftly unbuttoned his shirt and tugged it off, letting it fall away to the floor before he pulled Sherlock's coat back on. The carefully bonded wool felt different against his bare skin and he hugged it tight around himself for a long moment before reaching into the pocket of his trousers to withdraw his phone. With a huff of a laugh he raised the phone above him, angling it so that it faced down towards him and tapped the screen. He lowered it to his face and lay back on the bed with a smirk. Yes, perfect. A photo of him wearing the coat, obviously in the detective's bed, a sliver of bare chest exposed and a grin that could rival the happiest of men. He tapped out a phone number and hit send, watching as the photo was sent off to Sherlock and laughed loudly. He wished he could see the expression on the man's face when he received that, how delightful it would be to see him react to the obvious violation of not only his home, his bedroom, but his own personal clothing.

Jim shrugged off the coat with a small sense of regret, wishing he could keep it for the nights he was alone. It's warm weight and familiar scent, it's size being too big and easy to wrap around himself were all rather comforting. He traced his fingers over the fabric again with a look of longing, pausing to circle the top button with his nail. Perhaps he could take it as a trophy, just a button. He shook his head, no. He couldn't bring himself to damage such a gorgeous coat. The memory and photo would have to be enough. He dressed again in his own clothes, leaving the coat crumpled on the mess of the bed and left the room with one last look of wistfulness. As he left the flat, hands in his pockets and a faint smile of satisfaction on his face, he let a small laugh escape, hoping that his own cologne had left a lingering scent on the coat, the pillow, the covers, everywhere so that Sherlock would never again be able to drift off to sleep without thinking of him. An act of revenge to level the playing field, given that he suffered that scene every time he crawled into his own bed. Maybe now, the detective would know what it felt like to be unable to get his rival out of his mind.


End file.
